It’s mid-August and the weather feels like mid-September, warm days and cool nights. I get up at midnight and close the windows to half. The first blanket is back on the bed; I lay it over my feet, and by morning it’s up to my shoulders.
I count on my fingers. Ten months since I was last here. Ages. And gone in a flash.
My Mom died at the beginning of November. Grief is a strange and unpredictable ride. I stopped writing.
The pandemic, officially identified in March, introduced me to a stew of feelings that shifted, on some days, by the minute.
I forced myself to stay away from the news sites. Once every three days was all I could handle, and even that left me alternately chilled and in flames.
Months before the pandemic, I was longing for writing time uninterrupted by errands and appointments. Now time was mine in abundance, and I hadn’t the focus to write. I blame the feelings stew.
So I moved into Plan B. If writing isn’t working, do its opposite. I read. Should say I READ—there was a ton of it happened. I learned from the writings of others, and thank you fellow writers for carrying me and saving me.
In May my words returned. Draft number four is more than half done, and I truly love what has happened to the shape of my book. It’s become word and image–narrative, lists, pages that hold only a dozen words scattered in the white space, drawings, photographs. It’s like me, a kind of story that’s also a scrapbook.
Blessings wrapped and buoyed me all these months. That I and my family and friends remain well. That I am writing something I love. That I find ways through if I am patient and watch for light, warmth, and kindness to show themselves.
I don’t laugh as much, but I love bigger.
I am not the person who wrote the last post of October 2019. I am shaken, broken, turned round, made whole again. Not sure I recognize this new me, and I welcome learning who I am.
One thing I know already. I am fortunate, and I hope you who read this are also.
Sending love, kindness, and care.